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Wild clouds a-reel--
Wild sounds a-shout--
Black vapours steal
In ghastly rout.
Through rift is shot
The moon's wan grace--
But God! That blot
Upon its face!
Elizabeth Berkeley
Inspiration
One fragrant mom, when Spring was young,
I roam'd the glen in eager quest,
Hoping with careful eye among
The grass to find the violet's nest;
But not a leaf or bud seem'd sprung
Up from the couch of wintry rest.
And yet, when all my greedy search was o'er,
By chance I spy'd the flow'r I miss'd before!
One night, within my chamber pent,
I strove my fancies to enchain
In breathing numbers, and to vent
Some portion of my bliss and pain;
But strife of soul my musings rent--
The sluggish pencil mov'd in vain:
Yet out upon the mead, the starlight brought
The long-wish'd song, unbidden and unsought!
--Lewis Theobald, Jun.
The Conservative
Edited by H.P. Lovecraft in the Interests of the United Amateur Press Association. Published at 598 Angell St., Providence, R.I., U.S.A.
